Broken Wings
by AStrangeVessel
Summary: The mid-1990s. Teenage Sherlock is on his own. He's depressed, bitter, and has gotten into drugs. Then someone unexpected finds Sherlock and rescues the teen from himself. And at first, Sherlock hates it.
1. Chapter 1

He's lost faith. My charge has lost faith. I need to find him.

Those were my first thoughts as the sun rose on January 6th, 1995... His eighteenth birthday.

Sherlock Holmes had long since ran away from his parents' home, and since the previous summer, he'd been living on the streets and in the Underground of London. His older brother Mycroft may be working his way up through the British government, and he may have some slight pull on people who can keep track of his brother, but he won't be able to keep track of Sherlock as well as he'd like to. Not yet.

And I thought I'd be able to always watch Sherlock. I'm supposed to be able to always watch him. But last night, the drugs made him more paranoid than usual. He may've thought someone was following him, possibly thinking it was his brother or his brother's people, possibly someone else.

In a way, both were true.

But then I failed. I lost track of him. And I need to find him. It may be too late, but I need to find him. Quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

It may be surprising to learn that I'd found Sherlock fairly quickly. But not quickly enough.

I'd found him in a drug den situated in a disused Tube station. I'd called the proper authorities to get Sherlock to a hospital, and to have the drug den shut down.

Yes, technically, I could've easily healed his physical injuries. (He'd slit his own wrists and was bleeding out. And further up his forearms, I could see needle marks.)

What I couldn't heal was his mental health. He was extremely high, extremely addicted, which I'm assuming was his own twisted way of escaping severe depression.

Human hands were better able to rehabilitate him in that manner.

As soon as I heard the ambulances and police cars arrive, I'd left. Better to let the young detective Lestrade think this was an anonymous concerned citizen.


	3. Chapter 3

I knew it's probably not the best idea for me to reveal myself to Sherlock. Yes, I was allowed to use a human vessel for going undercover in situations like when I'd called the authorities to get him to the hospital, or if there was ever a time I'd need to blend into a crowd while keeping an eye on him. But I'd get in so much trouble from my superiors if (and likely when) they'd ever find out. But some part of me wanted to use my job of protecting him as a bullshit excuse to them for the fact that I was visiting Sherlock in the hospital every night, long after the normal visiting hours were over, because I genuinely like him.

It was just after midnight on January 1st, 1996. Sherlock had been in the hospital for treatment and rehabilitation for about a year.

Because it was New Year's, and because it was less than a week before his nineteenth birthday, Sherlock would've rather been out celebrating that night. He resented the fact he'd be stuck in the hospital for another twelve hours.

And that was when I decided I'd let Sherlock see me.

Naturally, he was scared and confused. From his point of view, someone had just... Appeared in his hospital room. In the middle of the night.

Sherlock started to panic. Not waiting until the morning to talk to him was starting to look worse every minute.

The more I thought about it, I was starting to feel like I was looking more like a psychotic stalker and not a guardian angel... Like in those teen vampire books that wouldn't become popular for another decade.

I touched a finger to his forehead, whispering to him that I'd talk him when he leaves the hospital. He instantly fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

That afternoon, I found Sherlock leaving the hospital after his discharge.

Apparently he had some memory of seeing me the night before. "You're starting to follow me, aren't you?" he asked. "Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

I replied, "Your brother? No, not exactly. He's not quite as influential as he'd like to think yet. I was the one who asked your brother to let me be your... caretaker, and he agreed. I have a different boss, if you will."

"American? Russian? The Queen herself?"

"No, someone you'd lost faith in after what happened with your sister," I told Sherlock.

"Eurus is dead to me," Sherlock snapped. "And I can't forgive a God who let's that sort of thing happen to people He's supposed to love."

I started to reply, but Sherlock continued, "And what about you? If you're so set on protecting me, where were you when I was a boy?"

"I can't answer for my father," I said. "And I know it's probably the worst excuse I can give right now, but... I was a fledgling - a child - then, too... and I didn't know how to help you like I should've, and how I would've liked to.

"Now I'm just trying to fix things with you. And... I was the anonymous tipster who got you out of the drug den last year," I admitted. "Go ahead and hate me for all of this if you want. I don't blame you. Just... don't let me leave you. I want to help you."

"You're right. I do hate you," Sherlock said. "But I'll keep you around. I'm curious about you... and why you have those wings."

"You already know I'm a... wait. What?"

"Yeah, those big things coming out of your back, with the golden-flecked, sand-tan feathers. The wing structure remind me of a..."

"You're not... you shouldn't be able to see those. Humans normally can't see our wings..."


	5. Chapter 5

I followed Sherlock as he wandered around London, still angry with me. It felt like he was trying to confuse me, or to shake me off his trail (despite the fact that he'd claimed he was curious enough to keep me around).

It had been hours, long enough for the sun to start going down, before I pulled him into a cafe and sat him down at a table.

"Order something," I said. "Eat. Give yourself a break. You need it. You just got out of the hospital, and you're going to overexert yourself trying to run away like this."

Sherlock sighed, "Fine. Just as long as you get something too. I warn you, though, when I left the hospital, Mycroft left me very little access to my own bank accounts, so it'll be iffy on whether or not I'll actually be able to pay for this food."

I'm not sure what all Sherlock ordered for us. I do know that Sherlock kept shooting me dirty looks every so often while furiously shoving food into his mouth.

Meanwhile, I just sort of picked at whatever Sherlock had ordered me. I was trying (and probably failing) to keep up the illusion that I was just another ordinary human. It's just that since I'm an angel, I don't technically have to eat.

Sherlock barely had any money after paying the bill, and then we left after he paid.


	6. Chapter 6

Once again, Sherlock insisted upon wandering around London again, though it was a cold night in the middle of winter. I say insisted, but I really mean he wandered around without saying anything other than he didn't have anywhere to go, since he had almost no money and no family willing to take him in. I eventually followed him as he ducked into one of the city's parks.

He ended up falling asleep on a bench in the park. I tried covering him with my wings to keep him from freezing overnight, only removing them when I thought he was going to wake up.

Sherlock ended up waking at sunrise, claiming the glare was keeping him from getting any more sleep. He told me to stay put on that bench so he knew where to find me after getting us breakfast from a coffee shop.

I tried to follow him to make sure he wasn't going to go relapse. But I got lost.

I wandered around the park until Sherlock found me an hour later, carrying a small paper bag of pastries and a pair of coffees.

"There's only one of these pastries left. And I told you not to wander off," he said, handing me one of the coffees.

"That's not exactly how protecting you works..."

"What am I supposed to call you, anyway? You never gave me your name... Not that I care..."

I told him, "Kensington, rather like these gardens. That's what I want you to call me. I hear you don't like going by William, so I'd rather not go by my angel name."

Sherlock looked over to a nearby statue of Peter Pan and changed the subject. "You know, as a little boy, I used to really enjoy playing pirates with my best friend..."

"Victor Trevor, I know."

"How?"

I sighed. "This is part of what I meant yesterday when I was saying how I should've been a better help to you after your sister did what she did."

I touched a finger to Sherlock's forehead. The scenery around us blurred, and then changed to something from Sherlock's memories: First, two boys playing pirates... The memory he enjoyed of his friend. Second, a closed-casket funeral... Where the casket was rather small.

Then we shifted back to the scene of Victor and young Sherlock... Though something was slightly different about it.

"Why are we back here, Kensington?" Sherlock asked.

"We're not in your memory of this time right now; we're in Victor's, as it were. I probably shouldn't be showing you this, Sherlock, but this is Victor's little space in heaven. He is in fact dead, and his soul is reliving some of his happiest moments."

"I don't understand..."

I called out for Victor to leave his game and come to talk to the me and the Sherlock standing by my side.

As the boy ran over to us, I said, "I deeply regret not being able to have been able to save your friend in the way I imagine you would like... But there is something I managed to do."

The boy reached us and stopped. He looked at us curiously, then his eyes widened as realized who we are. "Oh, it's you!" he said. "Hello, Sherlock and Angel! Watchoo doin' here?"

I crouched down to the boy's level and asked, "Victor, do you remember how you met me? Can you tell Sherlock?"

"When Eurus was hurting me, I asked for an angel. This one came. I knew I was gonna die, so I let the angel use my body so you'n'me could keep playing."

"Thank you, Victor," I said. "You've been good. Go on back to your game."

Victor started to run off, paused to turn and wave goodbye to us, then continued back to his happy existence.

I continued, "I haven't the heart to tell Victor that while I have been using his body as my human vessel, I never actually had the nerve to be around you until I'd called to get you out of the drug den. I'd let Victor's family bury an empty casket. And I just... Ran away while my father let this body age normally with me inside. My superiors barely allowed me to do this. They thought that since your sister had been dealt with, you'd be safe... And I was temporarily suspended until you'd left home and eventually got into drug use."

I touched Sherlock's forehead once more, and we were by the statue once more.

And I could see in his face that Sherlock was conflicted. He still resented me for the fact that I'd kept him from killing himself and had sent him to rehab the year before. And now that he knew I was using an aged-up version of his late best friend, I couldn't tell whether or not he hated me for that, too, or if he wanted to try to forgive me enough to have a new-old friend.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. A devilish grin spread across his face. (Yes, I know. It was a bad pun.)

He told me to follow him, and we once again started wandering around the city. Again. At one point, we did throw away what was left of our breakfast. Sure, I'd been following Sherlock as he aimlessly wandered the city since the previous afternoon, but it was getting exhausting.

And another bad cliche: Sherlock's actions were speaking much louder than his words. He claimed he wanted to keep me around out of curiosity, even with the recent revelation about my vessel. But the way he was still running around the city, it felt more like he wanted me to get hopelessly lost again.

As we wandered through a series of tight alleyways, I asked, "Where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock replied, "Mycroft apparently wants me to find a 'job.' That's where we're going: To get me a job. I just never told him I'd find a 'respectable' one he'd like me to find."

As Sherlock seemed to find the passage he wanted, he stopped walking, turned around widdershins a few times, and continued telling me, "I just need someone to get me Below."

"Below? Below London? Surely you're not planning on relapsing so quickly! Below London is where I found you the last time!"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Sherlock said, not quite trying to reassure me. "But I do fully expect some danger from this."

And then a door-shaped space appeared in the middle of a brick wall. A young woman came through it.

"Shezza!" she cried, running over to hug him. "Where have you been? It's been a year!"

"Well..."

I butted in, "The hospital. He's been in in the hospital for drug addiction."

"Shezza! How could you do something so careless?" She then turned to me and asked, "Who's this? A new friend?"

Sherlock told the girl, "Lady Door, this is... Kensington, he says. He somehow convinced my brother to let him be my bodyguard or something." He shot me a look. "None of this was my idea."

"A bodyguard! How exciting! I had one, too, recently. Come on, let's go see my new friend Richard." Door started leading me and Sherlock down the passageway she'd created, going on about how her family had just been assassinated a few weeks earlier, and how she and this Richard had been trying to unite London Above and London Below, whatever that meant.

Apparently, this was the job Sherlock was trying to find.

My blood chilled when she said an angel who goes by Islington was floating around somewhere through time and space.

I'd never met that particular brother, as I'm much too young to remember his exile. But I do remember hearing stories of how he'd failed his duties and let Atlantis fall. Now he'd escaped his prison and was... somewhere and somewhen I didn't know.

And I decided it was too dangerous to let this Lady Door know that I'm an angel, too.


End file.
